


when she sleeps she hears the blues

by helenecixous



Category: Last Tango In Halifax
Genre: F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, but !! i hope u like it, happy birthday alex it's so late i am the Worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:05:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9152725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/pseuds/helenecixous
Summary: "What if I want it to? What if I’ve spent most of my life trying to pretend to be something I’m not? How on earth can you tell me that it’s harmful? I’ll tell you what’s harmful - it’s harmful for gay kids, the kids you teach! It’s harmful for them to grow up with such a disgusting, shameful lack of openly gay people - openly gay successful people, to show them that there is nothing wrong with them!"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elainebarrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/gifts).



It starts with a phone call. Everything always starts with a phone call, because it’s 2017, and what else do things start with these days? Caroline sounds rushed (when does Caroline not?), and you can hear the rain battering the roof of the car.

“What?” you ask, because all you’re really getting is Caroline swearing at some tosser who’s overtaken her on a bend, like she’s forgotten that you’re on the phone with her. “Caz-”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, and you smile to yourself, looking up at the ceiling from where you’re laying on the sofa. “They’re having a, a birthday party? Or something?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that happens sometimes. See, when people are born, we like to celebrate that day on a yearly - annual basis. It’s, like, something that us mere mortals do when we want to show somebody that we like that they’re alive. Either that or we want to show them that we’ve got pushy relatives who wouldn’t let us stay home.”

Caroline’s quiet, and that’s never a good sign. You hear the wipers going, and worry for a moment that she’s dead. “Caz?”

“You remember I told you about Mr. Raeburn?”

“The creep that tried to touch you up and tell you how much of a bitch his wife is? Yeah.”

“It’s his party,” she explains, sounding harrowed. “And he doesn’t seem to care or believe that I-”

“Bat for the other side?  _ Swing the other way?  _ Swim in the ladies’ pond? I’m running out of euphemisms, someone should write a book of these so I can keep them on hand. So he doesn’t seem to care or believe that you, Caroline, are a massive homosexual?”

“Eloquent, as always.”

“He really doesn’t?”

“Won’t, I think,” she corrects you, and you can imagine the way her knuckles are probably white as she clutches the wheel, because she’s about to ask you for something, and Caroline doesn’t  _ ask _ people for things.

“R _ ight?”  _ you prompt, hoping that your tone will spur her along a little bit. Despite what she and her mother think, you actually do have things that need to be done. “What do you want me to do? Come to your school and pretend to be a spurned ex? Shout at you about how you’ve left me broken hearted?”

She’s quiet again, and your jaw drops.

“You do? Oh, my god, you actually want me to do that?”

“Well not that exactly -  _ don’t you fucking have indicators that work you stupid prick! -  _ no, well, what I was  _ thinking,  _ is if I turn up to this sodding birthday party with a - a date, then he and the rest of the staff will be able to either brag about how the headteacher for their oh so progressive liberal school is a lesbian, or quit. Either way it’s going to make my life one hell of a lot easier.”

You sit up from the sofa and watch the shadow of the window on the wall, and watch the distorted silhouettes of the raindrops race down the pane. “I can’t believe you’re using your sexuality to politically one up or expose members of your staff,” you say, contemplating the idea.

“And why shouldn’t I?” she asks, for the first time sounding less frazzled and more like the put together formidable bitch you know her to be. “The whole world has been using my sexuality to politically one up and expose me for my entire life. It’s always going to be political.”

You think about spending an evening with Caroline, and that thought is okay, it’s nothing you’ve not done and enjoyed before. But spending an evening pretending to be Caroline’s date? Pretending to a bunch of strangers in a profession you’ve been wired to detest? Not so appealing. You sigh. “When is it?” you ask. “And on a scale of one to the BAFTAs, how fancy do I have to dress?”

You catch the reluctant smile in her voice as she replies, “Next weekend. It’s at that old pub, The Fox. And nothing too fancy, I suppose. I shouldn’t think that anybody else is making too much of an effort.”

You say you’ll think about it, tell her that there’s a strong possibility that you won’t be able to make it, and you know you’re not imagining the relief in her voice as she tells you not to worry if you can’t, that she can ask somebody else if she needs to, and that she can always just cancel altogether if it comes to it.

In the end, it’s the knowledge that you’d both rather spend an evening like that with other people that makes you call her back, three days later, and agree. You’re interested to know what it’s like to be Caroline’s girlfriend for a night, curious to see whether you’ll be able to stand it, and by the time the weekend rolls around you’re almost looking forward to it, if for no other reason than you know she’s going to be on her best behaviour towards you. That she doesn’t really have much of a choice in the matter, when it comes down to it. It’s you for one night, or Mr. Grabby Hands for the rest of her career. Even your self deprecating self knows which one you’d prefer.

 

It’s a surprise when she comes to pick you up, mostly because she’s in a taxi. You blame the smile on your face and your raised eyebrows on this alone, because that’s easier than admitting to yourself that your heart did this little double beat when she got out - all long legs and high heels and black tight fitting three quarters, finished with an oversized checked shirt.

“Taxi?” you ask, grinning and locking your front door.

“I figured I’m probably going to need quite a hefty volume of alcohol to get through tonight,” she says, and you quirk an eyebrow as you duck in front of her and slide into the car.

“Are you going to sound like that all night?” you ask, fastening the seatbelt and offering her a wicked smile as you idly wonder whether you’re going to go through a dramatic fictional breakup tonight.

She huffs and ignores you, fixes her gaze out of the window. That’s fine by you, because then you’re free to blush at her ankles and calves like some prude Victorian without fear of judgement. And it’s fine, you reason, because she looks at you in that slightly exasperated way that means she either thinks you’re brain dead lowlife trailer trash (the classist knob), or something akin to her daughter. Either way, she isn’t about to fall into bed with you, and you’re okay with that, because that would be fifty shades of monumentally shit, and your dad would probably end up suffering from a fatal heart attack. Although, you laugh to yourself as you turn to look out of the window, the look on Celia’s face would probably be worth it.

Caroline snaps you out of your reverie by suddenly diving for her handbag, and you watch as she pulls out a small bottle of hand cream, and then the whole taxi fills with that generic soft female smell.

By the time you get to the pub, Caroline’s applied the hand cream no fewer than three times, and you realise with intrigue that Caroline is actually  _ nervous.  _ You cock your head at her, and reach out to squeeze her knee briefly.

“Alright?” you ask, and she sighs.

“I’m fine,” she says, but she shoots you a small smile that tells you that she doesn’t actually hate your guts.

You sit back and grab for your bag, making sure you have your wallet, phone, and keys. You do understand that she’s nervous because she’s only interacted with these people from behind a desk, from a position of official superiority, and that Caroline’s a bit shit in social situations at the best of times, but that doesn’t stop you from looking forward to this with renewed vigour, because there’s something like a novelty in seeing Caroline Elliot out of her depth. And besides, how bad could it actually be? You worked in Greenoughs for a lifetime, you’ve seen every kind of person there is to see. You’re totally prepared for this.

 

What you’re not prepared for, it turns out, is Caroline. At first there’s not really much different about her - apart from the fact that she’s alternating between holding your hand and sliding her arm around your waist and you feel her hand resting on your hip. The people are pleasant, not really as interested in you both as you’d expected, and the night gets easier as more alcohol flows, and it takes you about half an hour to give up paying attention to names, and an hour before all the faces become the same one to you. There’s small talk and wine and beer, and someone gets you a shot each that you can’t help but admire Caroline for as she knocks it back with an assured smile. It’s also surprisingly easy to slip into fictional girlfriend mode, and you find yourself tucking her hair behind her ear and leaning in to speak to her softly. At first it’s just for show, and then it becomes instinctive, and the whole event feels safe and familiar, because you know how to mingle when you want to.

It’s when you stop paying attention, when Caroline disappears to get drinks and leaves you sitting at a table with Mr. Grabby Hands and his wife, that something shifts. You’re enduring Grabby Hands tell you about his dissertation at university, and that time he visited a farm one time when he was twelve years old, and what an admirable and difficult profession you are in! You’re nodding along, humming in the right places and smiling in the pauses, when something makes you turn around. Caroline’s at the bar still, in front of her there are two pints of something dark, but she’s talking animatedly (arguing) with one of her colleagues. You watch her, straining to hear over the shitty tinny music and the general ruckus of the crowd, and you last only a few seconds before your curiosity gets the better of you and you mutter an excuse and slide from the chair to join her.

“I’m just sayin’ that it doesn’t have to, like, define you,” the woman is saying, and you don’t think you ever bothered to get her name. “You can be gay and not make it so obvious.”

Caroline looks like she’s ready to smack the woman into next year, and she barely acknowledges you as you approach them. “How can you  _ say  _ it doesn’t define me?” She’s not even trying to be tactful anymore, she’s two beers past tact. “What if I want it to? What if I’ve spent most of my life trying to pretend to be something I’m not? How on earth can you tell me that it’s harmful? I’ll tell you what’s harmful - it’s harmful for gay kids, the kids you teach! It’s harmful for them to grow up with such a disgusting, shameful lack of openly gay people - openly gay  _ successful  _ people, to show them that there is  _ nothing  _ wrong with them!”

You feel the breath rush out of you so quickly that for a second it feels like your lungs might collapse into themselves, and you brush her hip with your thumb before you step back and leave her to it. You don’t want to intervene, to play up to it, to pretend to be a doting girlfriend just to wind up the twat she’s arguing with, because all you can think of is the Caroline who booked two separate hotel rooms for a weekend away with her girlfriend, who could barely say the word ‘lesbian’ without blanching and looking like she wanted to punch something. You back up, a small and completely genuine smile on your lips as you head outside for a smoke, and you try not to think about why Caroline’s journey of self acceptance is making you so damned happy. Not for the first time, you find yourself thinking about how lucky those kids at that school are, and how much you… Yeah. How much you admire her. Because you do. Caroline Elliot is kicking ass, and you’re kind of disappointed in yourself for being a little bit surprised.

 

You’re in the taxi back, both of you are three shots past sensible, and you’re leaning against the window, liking the way the condensation is making the back of your head cold as you watch Caroline. She’s got her head tipped back against the headrest, and the streetlights are splashing across her, painting her features angular and unforgiving. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted as she breathes softly, and even in the gloom you can see that the colour is high on her cheeks and you know that if her eyes were open, they’d be bright. You want to ask her how she can look so soft and so stern all at the same time, but you can’t make the words form through your alcohol clouded mind, so you settle for silence.

 

For what’s probably the first time, Caroline’s drunker than you are. She’s stumbling up the drive to her house, and you’re following, the both of you cackling and swaying as she tries to jam the key into the door, muttering something about how her old key used to go into the door upside down until she finally manages it and the door swings open.

She stumbles and you wrap your arms tightly around her waist to steady her, the both of you laughing so much that her knees buckle and you swear, trying to focus on the stairs enough to gently maneuver her to them. She grabs your hand and pulls you behind her, and you both begin the slow and probably dangerous ascent up the too-narrow stairs.

“‘ave... ah, fuck... ‘ave you got a blanket?” you manage to ask as you get to her room. She sits down unsteadily on the edge of her bed and kicks off her shoes, breathing deliberately slowly as she concentrates on getting the second one off.

“A what?” she asks, finally looking up at you as you lean against the doorframe heavily. “What’d’you want a blanket for?”

“So I can sleep on sofa,” you say, watching her blink slowly before standing, and she walks towards you, her hair messed up and her lips pink, and before you can say anything she’s kissing you, and you’re kissing her, and there’s a large part of you that’s thinking of that large bed, and this woman, and how easy it would be to do this under the influence of alcohol, how nice it would be to have such a sound excuse when the regrets come for you both in the morning. She tugs you forward, and you follow. You didn’t know that alcohol could taste so sweet.

 

You wake up feeling like you’ve been hit over the head with a mallet, and your mouth feels like it’s full of sand. The blankets that you’re curled under are warm and heavy and the light is punishingly bright, and you blink your eyes open with a groan. You’re half on the sofa, half not, and as you sit up experimentally you give yourself a mental high five because you, Gillian Greenwood, managed to make a grown up, considerate decision, by the looks of your sleeping conditions. You look around slowly, and on the table next to you there’s a steaming cup of coffee and two painkillers. Opposite you, is Caroline.

“Good morning,” she says, and she doesn’t look as rough as she sounds. She’s smiling at you, and as you reach for the coffee you realise that you’re desperate to talk to her about last night.

“Who was tha’ woman you were arguin’ with?” you croak before clearing your throat and taking the pills with a swig of coffee. “Wait, no. I don’t care who she was. How long ‘ave you been doin’ shit like that?”

“Shit like what?” she asks patiently. “Telling homophobes that they’re being homophobic?”

“Well, yeah,” you say. “I guess that’s it, yeah.”

“Since I realised how shit it is growing up being told that you can be gay as long as you’re gay  _ quietly.” _

You nod, wrapping your fingers around your mug and watching the steam rise slowly.

“So…” she says, running her fingers through her hair. “What about you?”

“What about me what?”

“How long have you been doing shit like that?”

“Shit like what?” you ask, blinking at her. “I ain’t got a clue what you’re on about, Caz.”

She watches you for long enough that she can decide whether or not you’re lying, before she just shakes her head. “You should shower,” she says. “You look like hell.”

 

She waits until you’ve showered and eaten and collected all of your things and called a taxi before she tells you. You’re standing in the doorway, the taxi’s rolling onto the drive, and you turn to say goodbye to her. She’s got this stupidly smug smile on her face as you turn, and you’re about to ask her what the hell she has to smile about when she’s this hungover, but she pulls you into a hug and you decide it’s probably safer to just roll with it. Especially since you told her something stupid while you were drunk, and she’s probably not above using it against you until one of you dies.

“Thank you for yesterday,” she says softly, and you shrug, pulling away.

“Wasn’t too bad,” you say. “You’re alright company.”

She laughs, and fixes you with that look that you’ve always taken to mean that she wants to deck you, and you chastise yourself as your stomach fucking flutters. “You’re not too bad yourself,” she tells you, and you flip her off before stepping out of the house.

“See you later?” you ask, and she wraps her arms around her middle, nodding.

You’re almost at the taxi when she calls you, and you turn expectantly. She beckons you back to her, and you sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Listen, I’ve got sheep to feed, Caroline.”

“You told me you love me,” she says, and your heart stops.

“I- what?”

“Did you mean that?”

_ Fuck.  _ “I just meant-” You remember now, remember gently untangling her from you and helping her into bed before kissing her forehead in a rare show of affection. You’d pulled the duvet over her and whispered that you loved her, called her a posh twat, and left for the sofa. “Ah, fuck, Caroline-”

You can tell she isn’t pissed off with you, quite the opposite, but your heart won’t listen. It’s half way up your throat, and even as she leans forward and kisses your half formed excuses away you’re half afraid that it’s going to pound out of your chest. You’re still reeling and sweaty handed as she steps back and runs to the taxi, and you watch her leaning in to talk to the driver and hand him something before she comes back to you.

“I think I’d quite like it if you came with me to all of their awful birthday parties,” she says softly, and the taxi drives away.

You’re looking at her, knowing that your smile mirrors hers, and you shrug, trying to act nonchalant. “I mean, I guess that wouldn’t be terrible,” you say as she glares at you and pulls you back into the house. It  _ wouldn’t  _ be terrible. Worth it to see the look on Celia’s face, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> title from silk by wolf alice !!


End file.
